


the best in us

by Ryah_Ignis



Series: Season 13 Codas [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 13x23 Coda, M/M, in which I project my emotions on to sam again, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryah_Ignis/pseuds/Ryah_Ignis
Summary: "Cas suddenly can’t breathe.“You—you resurrected me.  For Dean.”Jack nods. “He became something better when you were around.  I think I understand that, now.  It’s why we love people.  They bring out the best in us.  Sam, Dean, you.  You brought out the best in me.  Even when I didn’t deserve it.”Post 13x23, Sam feels guilt about his mixed emotions and Cas finally learns why Jack resurrected him.





	the best in us

“I can’t fly us home,” Jack says.

Sam tears his eyes away from the place where Dean—where Michael—last stood for the first time in forty-five seconds. Beside him, Jack flexes his hands, staring down at them as if he’s never seen them before.

“Well,” Sam says, catching his breath despite the weight on his chest. “We’ll just have to do what humans do, then.  We walk.”

So they walk. 

Well.  They walk, and Sam hotwires a car that they come across at a service station along the highway, but he doesn’t exactly want to teach Jack that that’s what ordinary humans do.

By the time they reach the bunker, Sam’s hands have begun to shake where they clutch the steering wheel.  Shock, he thinks.  About what, he doesn’t know.

It’s been a shocking few hours.

“Get Bobby,” Sam orders once they get inside. “If he’s anything like ours, he’s pretty damn good at stitches.  He’ll get you fixed up.”

Jack looks at him, mouth half open as if he’s going to say something about the persistent tremor in Sam’s left hand.  He decides not to say it and vanishes into the bunker.  Sam sinks to sit on the stairs, his head in between his knees.

What kind of monster doesn’t grieve his own brother?

By the time he hears footsteps coming towards him, his breath is refusing to come in anything but shallow gasps that do little more than keep him upright.

“Sam!”

Mary drops to one knee in front of him, both hands coming up to cradle his face.  A year ago, Sam would have killed for this affection from his mother.  Now, he doesn’t deserve it.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He just shakes his head.  If she realizes what he’s thinking—if she knows—she’ll never look at him the same way again.

Mary seems to understand that she’s not going to get anything out of him, so instead she sits beside him on the stairs, clasped hands between her knees.  Sam regulates his breathing, pretending that his state is due to a long run in the woods outside the bunker.  Surprisingly, the trick works.

“Jack told me about Dean.  We’ll get him back.  We always do.”

He looks into her earnest face, and it strikes him again just how young she is.  Thirty, maybe, depending on how you count being dead from November to May and several decades in between.  There’s something like six years between the two of them, and what an eventful six years it’s been.

She’s never seen him without Dean.  She hasn’t seen the man that was willing to kill Bobby to get to the Trickster.  The man that drank demon blood.  The man that left a teenage prophet for dead.

“I know that,” Sam says.  Tries forcing a smile. “He’s never shared a small space with Dean before.  I give it a week before Michael ejects himself.”

He imagines his neat freak brother following Michael around his head, demanding _put that back where you got it or I swear to God_ until Michael just decides that it would be best to put a universe between them.

“It’ll be okay,” Mary soothes.

It’s not the gentle voice of a mother.  It’s the calm, professional response of an EMT.  Sam knows because he’s done it a million times himself.

“I know.”

But the trembling hand just won’t quit.

Mary places hers over it, gives it a squeeze. “What’s really wrong, Sam?”

He can’t quite look her in the eyes. “I’m—I’m relieved.”

Beside him, Mary stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away.  Sam squeezes his eyes shut before he continues.

“Dean killed him.  He’s finally dead.  It’s over.”  He replays the moment in his head, relishing at the ease in his chest that he hasn’t felt in two long years. “I don’t have to worry anymore.  I get to just—just _be_.”

There was always a part of him that thought he’d eventually wind up back in the pit.  That Lucifer was right; all roads really did lead there.  But now he knows there’s a different ending. 

It’s the freest he’s been since he was six months old, and it feels incredible.

“I’m so relieved that I’m not—I’m not devastated,” he says, and it tastes worse than the worst guilt he’s ever known.  And that’s saying quite a lot. “But I should be.”

Mary shakes her head. “There’s no such thing as _should be_.”

She gets to her feet, brushes some of the dirt off her pants like she hasn’t just spent the last year rolling around in a dusty wasteland.  The icy mix of emotions in Sam’s chest melts into something like gratitude instead.  The tremor in his hand lessens.

“You just need time to process.  Come on.  Rest, and then we’ll find your brother.  It’s not over yet.”

Mary holds out her hand.  Sam takes it.

* * *

Of course it’s Charlie that dares speak to him first.

The rest of the group tiptoes around him.  The other refugees haven’t quite gotten used to an angel in their midst just yet, but Charlie Bradbury takes most things, like she did in the other life Castiel knew her, in stride.

“I’m sorry,” she says, plunking herself down beside him on the stair.

She hands him a soda. “We’re out of beer from the party, but I don’t think alcohol is a good idea right now, anyway.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Cas informs her.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Whatever.  Still a bad coping mechanism, dude.”

She lets the silence last for about thirty seconds before she can’t help breaking it.  Despite himself, Cas can’t help the small swell of affection at the memory of Charlie.  Their Charlie, anyway.

“Were you two—?  I don’t want to assume, but—”

Cas stares at her. “We—no.  We weren’t.”

Won’t, now.

He knows Michael and his scorched earth tactics.  No survivors and nothing to build on, either.  Just ashes. Judging by the state of his world, that held true no matter which Michael you dealt with. Even if they manage to extract him from Dean, that doesn’t mean there will be something left.

“If it’s anything,” Charlie says softly, nudging his shoulder, “I think he knows.  You look at him like he hung the moon.”

Cas doesn’t bother telling her that he actually did help hang the moon.  Instead, he nods stiffly.

“Thank you.”

He sets the soda down and walks away.

To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t realize where his feet are carrying him until he reaches the doorway.

“Jack.”

Jack stands in the middle of Dean’s room, hands clenched.  Even with only a glimpse of his shadowed face, Cas can see the tear tracks.

“I could have killed Michael.  I was strong enough.”

The _you could have_ rises up in Cas’s throat, but he shoves it back down.  Jack is oddly like Dean in that regard.  He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.  Adding another pound won’t help matters.

“Lucifer would have killed you and Sam.  Dean would have never recovered.”

At least this way, he knows the people he loves are safe.  Cas remembers taking solace in that when locked away in his mind while Lucifer controlled his body.

He gets Dean’s anger, now.  It’s so much easier to be the one along for the ride than the one left behind.

“You look like he did,” Jack comments, tilting his head to the side.

“What?”

“When you were dead.  He was—he was angrier.  Harder.  Colder.” Jack glances back at his hands. “That’s why I brought you back, I think.  I wanted to help him, so I wished.  And it came true.”

Cas suddenly can’t breathe.

“You—you resurrected me.  For Dean.”

Jack nods. “He became something better when you were around.  I think I understand that, now.  It’s why we love people.  They bring out the best in us.  Sam, Dean, you.  You brought out the best in me.  Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

And suddenly, standing there in the middle of the room, he looks so small.  Without his powers, he’s just a kid.  A supernaturally aged kid.  Cas strides into the room and hugs him.  Jack clings back like he’s never going to let go.

“I’m sorry I can’t bring him back to you,” he says quietly.

Cas shakes his head. “We’ll save him.  Together.”

Dean Winchester—Dean Winchester’s love—brought out the best in him, too.  And that’s why Cas won’t ever leave him behind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for such a wonderful season! Your kudos and comments have been an amazing encouragement to keep writing and posting. 
> 
> If you're interested, I'll begin posting my summer fic, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, sometime later this month. No spoilers, but it's a little destiel to get us through hiatus!
> 
> And I've also begun a side project called The Wayward Project. Check us out on tumblr--we'll be posting fic all summer, so if you want a little more of what you see here all year, please head on over.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading!


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